


meet me in florida

by sevenzeroseven



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Let me dream, M/M, could be taken in a shippy or non-shippy light tbqh, ep 12 aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8175719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenzeroseven/pseuds/sevenzeroseven
Summary: You don't need a reason to live. You just live.





	

**Author's Note:**

> MY BABIES WENT TO BE GAY IN FLORIDA OK

_Meet me in Florida._ It’s such a vague request (demand?) that Angelo hadn’t considered following it at all. That beach was supposed to have been his conclusion; it was supposed to have been his _resting_ place, but in retrospect, maybe he should have expected this. Angelo’s fingers rise to graze across his cheek, the scar nearly healed where Nero’s bullet had missed. He sighs and flings another paper onto the doorstep.

Paper boy. Now this is a job he hasn’t had in a long time, not since tears regularly stained his pillowcase. It was difficult convincing the man to lend him the work, given there are plenty of young boys chomping at the bit, but Angelo supposes he’s just young enough to pass off as a wayward teen down on his luck. He can turn up the sympathy charm when he wants; he just hasn't felt the need to in a long time. 

 _Need to_. That’s where his line of thought stops. What need could he possibly have anymore?

Meet me in Florida. Yeah, sure. Angelo had scoffed at it as soon as Nero’s car disappeared. He’d walked along the shore and considered throwing himself in the surf. He’d stolen another vehicle and considered driving it off the road. He stares at an empty gun every night and wonders that if he buys the bullets, will he finally do it? Probably, so he doesn’t. He lies awake a lot, but he also manages to fall asleep sometimes. He eats, and the food tastes bland, but at least it has a _taste_. He gets up in the morning, and he... actually finds the will to move. It’s a mystery.

Or maybe not.

Angelo takes to the same park he visits every other day after his shift. It’s not clockwork but close enough. He gets there before the sun sets, when the humid Miami weather is a tad more bearable, and smokes a cigarette. Maybe two. Sometimes he watches the children play. Sometimes he reads one of the papers he couldn't sell. The Vanetti massacre had dominated the headlines for weeks. A crackdown on gang warfare and political machines soon followed and then, finally, the repeal of Prohibition. He hadn’t thought much of any of it, hadn’t even flinched when he’d seen the late Don Vanetti’s picture alongside that of his son's. After a few sentences, he just skipped to the comic strips.

Life in Miami reminds him a little of life in Chicago. Except it’s a bit different now.

If he never comes, will he wait forever? That’s a question Angelo asks himself after he finally admits that’s what he’s been doing—waiting, the same as when he’d waited for that letter. Back then, he hadn’t known what he’d been waiting for. Now he does. It’s a tangible yet ambiguous thing. (They hadn’t set a meeting date or time or place, and as Angelo counts the days on his fingers he wonders if he’s not really just counting toward another anniversary. Luce, Testa, Elena, Corteo, and—)

He doesn’t let himself think that far. For now, he just… waits.

Angelo tips his cap back and doesn’t move from his spot under the tree. He must have fallen asleep at some point. The sun is at the horizon and casting brilliant hues of red-orange-purple across the sky. He shoves a hand in his jacket and takes out another cigarette. It’ll be his second and last before he starts planning his route home. He tries to take a different one every day.

Just as the tip sparks and fizzes to life, he hears a small voice at his side, a young boy’s. “Umm, Mister, can I?”

Angelo flicks his gaze askance, takes a drag. He spots a head of golden hair and wide, innocent eyes. He blinks, looks down, and shifts. A white ball rolls out from where it’d wedged itself between his side and the bark, and the boy’s hesitant frown splits into a grin.

“Thank you!”

Angelo doesn’t take much note; there’s a passing resemblance, but he sees a passing resemblance in every young, blond boy. He’s long numbed himself to it. It’s the other round globes in the child's hands that catch his attention, so big they hardly fit in his fingers. Before he can scamper off, Angelo asks, “Juggling?”

The boy’s gaze flickers with surprise then unadulterated glee. “Mmh!” He nods excitedly and points some place beyond a grove of trees. “The mister over there is teaching us how!”

“Oh?” Angelo drags his eyes in the same direction, but the trees are thick. He can only make out silhouettes among them, children’s laughter, and a mother or two on the fringe. 

“Mmh!” He nods again, and this time an idea seems to flash across his mind. His expression turns the slightest bit mischievous. Angelo’s next pull on his cancer stick is stopped midway when a determined hand latches onto his free wrist and yanks. The kid is surprisingly strong. “Do you want to learn too, Mister? Come with!”

 _No, thanks_ is his knee-jerk reaction. He’s tried once, not his thing, but as the boy tugs a second time, Angelo finds himself laboring to his feet anyway. It’s a tug at his heartstrings, a reminder of better days that still haunt him. He’ll humor the boy, he decides, then bounce. His feet nevertheless drag through the dirt, but his lack of enthusiasm doesn’t discourage his young ward in the least.

When they reach the edge, he finally lets go. He rejoins his friends in leaps and bounds, merges seamlessly into the ring of children, and that’s when Angelo hears him. He hears him before he sees him, before his eyes can travel from the backside of the boy who’d already forgotten him. His bellicose and jovial voice makes him the center of attention just like it always has. It earns him titters of laughter from the women and shouts of joy from the kids trying to mimic him.

“Good job!” Nero’s hand finds a little girl’s head and ruffles her hair. She beams with pride, three balls momentarily in the air before Nero’s encouragement causes her to fumble. 

“Aww!” 

“Let me try!”

“Hey, hey.” Nero shifts on the park bench and grins. “Next time! It’s getting dark, and I’m sure you don’t want your mothers to be late making dinner.”

Another round of groans rises from the ring but tapers off slowly as the women converge and begin herding their children back home. "Go on, scram." Nero makes a few shooing gestures with his hand. A few adults linger regardless and share a flirtatious giggle or two with the man of the hour; a few children insist on giving him gifts. Angelo doesn’t move. He has his eyes on the conspicuous cast around Nero’s right leg. (Whatever emotion he’s feeling isn’t worry but…)

“Oi!” 

Angelo looks up. Nero's waving at him. Angelo then looks to his left and to his right. The sounds of children have faded, and light purple skies have turned nearly dark blue-grey. They’re alone.

“You’re not going to make an injured man walk to you, are you?”

It’s not a soap opera reunion. (His life has always been a tragedy, after all.)

“How did you find me?” is the first thing out of his mouth. It sounds bitter and comes out distrustful, but Nero only grins his stupid grin as Angelo cautiously approaches. Old habits die hard. 

“I just asked for Angelo Lagusa,” he says easily, bringing around the crutch he has leaning against the back of his seat. “You went back to your old name,” he adds.

Angelo doesn’t say anything. He just stops a few steps short of the bench and grinds his cigarette stub into the dirt. He thinks for a moment before reaching into his jacket once more. “And you’ve looked better,” he scoffs.

Nero’s thick eyebrows furrow. He scratches his chin with the hand not supporting the crutch and practically pouts. It’s a familiar sight. Comforting. Angelo’s breath hitches, but he covers it with a flick of his wrist as he brings out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. 

“Jeez, that’s the first thing you say to me?” Nero asks but takes the proffered settlement. He sticks the cigarette in his mouth and waits patiently for Angelo to bring a lighter near.

“Damn!” Nero shouts as soon as he takes his first puff. “Haven’t had one of these in months!” 

Months. Angelo doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t take a new stick for himself. Rather, his hand reaches into his pocket again. He reaches for the picture he’s kept folded in its recesses all this time, and when he takes it out, Nero straightens.

“That’s—”

“You don’t need a reason to live. You just live.” Angelo stares at his little brother for the last time. He brings the lighter’s flame to the bottom corner and watches it immediately darken, curl, spread. 

Angelo hasn’t found an answer yet. He might never find one. He’ll never be whole again, but neither will Nero, and maybe that’s okay. 

“Right?” he asks. His eyes, bright with the fire of the picture quickly shriveling in his hand, meet Nero’s blue gaze. 

Nero’s face immediately softens. “Mmh!” he enthusiastically agrees. Silence enfolds them for a moment. Nero finishes his cigarette, and he watches. He waits until Angelo drops the photo, until it’s burnt to a crisp, before he finally asks, “Now, why don’t you treat me to a hot meal, huh?”

“I have a few more cans of pineapple at home.”

Nero’s roguish grin disappears immediately. He pulls a face, and Angelo laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> in all seriousness tho that ending was amazing and beautiful and im never going to get over it let me dream i need me some reincarnation fics stat ao3 do me a solid


End file.
